


A New Year’s Eve Wish

by paperbackrainbows



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Drunk characters, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Smut, alcohol mention, jerejean, just a lil kissy, soft, this is the first proper fic i’ve ever written pls be nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28344627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperbackrainbows/pseuds/paperbackrainbows
Summary: It’s loud.For the first time that night, Jeremy realises the sheer volume of, well, everything. USC boasts a pretty large courtyard, and tonight, there’s not even a hair’s breadth between him and the next person’s shoulder. Makeshift pillars (courtesy Renee and her handiwork) are shimmering in an alternating pearly white and rose gold, softly glowing thanks to the fairy lights strung across the perimeter.It’s the annual New Year’s Eve ball, and Jeremy realises, perhaps not soon enough, that someone very important is missing.trigger warnings: alcohol mentions, drunk character(s), minor reference to Jean’s trauma
Relationships: Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau, Laila Dermott/Sara Alvarez (mentioned)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	A New Year’s Eve Wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iridescent_blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescent_blue/gifts).



> I actually wrote this fic for my server’s Secret Santa event, as a gift for Jake. You’re wonderful, and I’m glad I got to know you :) Happy holidays, Jake, and I hope you like it!
> 
> It’s also the first proper fic I’ve written to post so I hope you all enjoy it as well; happy holidays and merry Christmas!

It’s loud.

For the first time that night, Jeremy realises the sheer volume of, well, _everything_. USC boasts a pretty large courtyard, and tonight, there’s not even a hair’s breadth between him and the next person’s shoulder. Makeshift pillars (courtesy Renee and her handiwork) are shimmering in an alternating pearly white and rose gold, softly glowing thanks to the fairy lights strung across the perimeter.

“Who throws a _ball_ on New Year’s Eve?” he mutters halfheartedly, tugging at his glittering tie, knowing very well that Allison organises one every year, and this year so happens to be their turn to host. His complaint is lighthearted, though, and soon forgotten as the lights suddenly brighten in a kaleidoscope of colours and a thrumming bass pulsates beneath his feet.

“Beloved bastards and mortal enemies,” Alvarez starts, but is immediately shoved off stage by a mildly exasperated Laila. “Girls, gays, and theys,” she tries again, but is cut off as the mic is pulled away from her, accompanied by a loud burst of laughter from the Fox table.

“Alright, folks,” Laila raises her eyebrows at Alvarez, who smiles innocently, sliding into a vacant chair. “One hour to New Year! Can I get a _hell yeah?”_

After a couple of ear-splitting screams and far too many I-can’t-hear-yous, the music crescendos, and Jeremy fits himself into the throng of moving bodies. He slips into easy conversation and tipsy laughter, arms thrown around Dan and - Aaron? Andrew? Oh, who cares - bobbing his head just a little too enthusiastically to the upbeat tune filling the air.

He laughs watching Laila kiss her girlfriend sloppily, soapy bubbles glimmering and iridescent around them, like a scene out of a romcom. Someone shouts “get a room!” and someone else tosses a handful of confetti their way, tangling their hair with strands of silver and pink, to which they respond, obligingly, with another kiss, and Alvarez throwing up both middle fingers behind Laila’s back.

He laughs, letting Kevin tug him onto the dance floor, his queen tattoo seeming to ripple under the strobe lights as he folds Jeremy into a haphazard tango, one hand matted in his blond curls, and the other drunkenly close to his hips. They clumsily glide in circles, knocking knees with more than a few people in the process, breaking apart dizzily and collapsing into the nearest chair - or, in Kevin’s case, Neil’s lap, who yelps and promptly deposits him on the floor in a heap of limbs and fabric. Jeremy feels his phone ping in his back pocket, no doubt due to Matt tagging him in yet another unflattering video of him waltzing like his life depended on it.

He laughs, throwing his head back, watching the Foxes empty several bottles of champagne atop Nicky and Erik’s heads, who are frozen in place, caught in the middle of embrace, the cold foam plastering their hair to their heads and soaking them thoroughly. He laughs even harder, grabbing a bottle of his own and swiftly uncorking it to douse Nicky further, only to feel a trickle down his back, slowly widening to a waterfall as Erik dumps an icy drink down his jacket. Allison’s going to kill him, he thinks, as the team turns on him and bathes his tux in fruit punch.

He doesn’t laugh watching the fireworks.

He dimly registers the thirty minute countdown announcement, booming through the speakers, but his thoughts buzz and his mind is already elsewhere. A low voice repeats itself, again and again, a broken record scratching at his skull.

Jean. Jean. Jean.

All at once a chasm opens in the place his heart beat only seconds ago, as it dawns on him that he hasn’t seen Jean… for a very long time. A lull settles over his body, the buzzing replaced by adrenaline and alcohol-fueled focus as he parts the crowd, stumbling towards the college building.

Silence is a blanket, and it’s suffocating as Jeremy enters the changing rooms. It was uncomfortably warm in the kitchen, where Jean would knead a variety of doughs every morning, his hands a canvas of flour and sugar; it was thick and heavy in the history rooms, where Jean would ponder over worn textbooks until the dawn began to stain the sky in a blush of crimson; it was beyond stifling in the art studio, where Jean often sat for hours, his fingers swirling striking portraits, endless landscapes, and sometimes bursts of abstract colour onto blank expanses.

Here, in the sports block, it chokes him. The muffled thumps he catches sound of are a breath - no, a desperate gasp, a much needed gulp - of fresh air. 

Jeremy all but sprints down the polished hallway, leaving scuff marks he _knows_ Laila will chide him for later. He skids to a stop, haltingly, beside the exy court, squinting at the floodlights drenching the red and gold walls in a light much harsher than the gentle glow outside.

The court is empty.

No - not quite.

A silhouette in the corner, tall and dark, ricochets a ball off the plexiglass, again and again and again. Even from this distance, Jeremy can tell Jean is trembling, but he rebounds with increased force each time, his arms flexing unsurely but firmly, his feet splayed in their usual sturdy position. How long has he been here? He’s been out of sight almost all night. Guilt floods Jeremy in a rush, seeping into every inch of his body and drowning him, holding his head under the riptide.

“I know you are there.” Jean’s accent is thick but clear, and Jeremy realises with a start that he’s wholly sober. It makes sense; again, Jean hadn’t stuck around for drinks. His jaw moves wordlessly, eyes rooted to the black waves of Jean’s head, who’s still facing the wall.

“It is not your fault.”

But the words only send a fresh wave of guilt through him. Still struck motionless, he watches as Jean turns, grey eyes clouded with the pain of an old wound reopened. Though he makes no sound, Jeremy can feel him asking - pleading for him to come inside.

And he does, slowly and unsurely, as if scared of splitting cracks down Jean’s very being, as if a single touch could tear him apart. It’s soundless, but the silence is deafening, a thunderclap between them, the sparks of the silent storm crawling down his backbone in flashing streaks.

Jean gestures, hands shaking, in the vague direction of the doorway. “Fireworks.”  
  
It takes Jeremy a minute to understand. The gunshot clap of the crackers detonating - god, how could he have been so stupid?

So he sits, and Jean almost crumbles onto the floor, as if he’d been waiting for a signal to stop, to rest. Jeremy looks up at him, a question lingering in his eyes. In answer, Jean presses a palm to his cheekbone, and he exhales, leaning into him.

“Mi cielito,” he murmurs, grazing Jean’s forehead with his lips, entwining his fingers in his dark curls.

“Mon soleil,” Jean replies in kind, and then his lips are on Jeremy’s, desperate, searching for warmth, reassurance, safety; Jeremy gives all he has.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “you’re okay,” and lets Jean slump into his lap.

They sit like that for a while, Jean’s head on Jeremy’s crossed legs, who runs knuckles delicately down his cheeks, now flushed a warm shade of scarlet. Jean is the one to break the silence.

“We had a tradition. A family tradition.” He’s quiet for a minute, then continues. “My mother, she would tell me: _faites un vœu._ Make a wish. She said if I made the wish just before the New Year came, it would come true.” He weaves his lean fingers through Jeremy’s broad, tanned ones. “I would wish for many things. More friends. A new bike. And my wishes would come true. So the next time, I would wish for something different. But when I was sold to the Nest-” he jerkily moves his wrist to subconsciously trace the scar along his torso, his voice cracking. “I would wish for the same thing every year.”

Jeremy hears his breath, quavering, the rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic beating of his heart. He draws circles in Jean’s open palm, slowly, steadily, safely.

“I would wish to go home.”

The words crack him open, ever so slightly, and looking into Jean’s eyes he catches a glimpse of a desperate teenage boy, homesick and broken, clinging onto a shattered memory in hopes it would soothe him, if not heal him. He says nothing for a period of time that stretches longer than the few minutes of its reality. Then:

“What did you wish for this year?”

Jean looks down.

He’s overstepped. He’s ruined it, he shouldn’t have said that, he shou-

“This year I don’t need to make a wish.”

Jean’s grip on his hand falters, then tightens. He leans forward and presses a tender kiss to Jeremy’s freckled jaw.

“I already am home.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I’ve posted here, and I’m relatively proud of it!! I hope y’all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it ♡


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